


Um

by yeaka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Ficlet, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2019-01-30 06:28:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12648000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Chris discovers a new prospect.





	Um

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Yuri on Ice or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He never spends long in his hotel rooms—not when there are pools and restaurants and bars to enjoy, _especially_ not when there are other competitors to spend that time with. But occasionally, after one particularly hard practice or another, Christophe will retire to his room, if only long enough for a soak or a catnap. As soon as he’s woken himself up, somewhere past eight o’clock, he’s stumbling into club clothes—painted-on jeans and a low-neck black shirt. Both are disposable, ready to stain or roll off, and after a few runs of his hands through his hair, he makes his way to the door, phone already in hand. Victor would be his first choice of partner, but he has half a dozen others he’ll ring if his main squeeze is busy. Given Victor’s bond with his protégé this season, he’s probably off the table. Christophe starts typing anyway but only gets to the letter ‘t.’

A knock on his door startles him out of it. Christophe saunters the rest of the way there. There are scent blockers around the frame, as there are in any decent hotel, but he can still _smell it_. A surge of raw _alpha_ hits him out of nowhere, and Christophe knows instantly that whoever’s on the other side of the door needs a night out even more than he does. He isn’t surprised that even this top-notch hotel can’t completely stifle the stench of an alpha’s rut.

Another omega would probably call through the wood to go away. But Christophe twists the handle without a second thought. The wave of pheromones quadruples around him, and he takes in a greedy whiff, letting it fill him up. His eyes flutter closed for half a second, basking only in that warmth. When he opens them again, his vision clears to a tall, dark, and thoroughly handsome not-so-stranger. 

Otabek Altin, frowning as deeply as ever, shuffles uncomfortably. It’s hard to say whether he looks more angry or embarrassed—not that Christophe’s ever seen him in either pure state. His eyes do a quick sweep of Christophe’s body, perfectly presented, and then he leans forward and mutters, too low to carry even half a meter, “I’m, uh... going into a rut. ...And everyone said to come to you.”

Christophe blinks, but the surprise doesn’t last long. He doesn’t have to ask exactly who ‘everyone’ is, because most of his fellow skaters would probably say the same thing. And if anything, he’s flattered for it. He flashes Otabek a wide smile, then does his own study, eyeing everything up from the black of Otabek’s large shoes to the crinkle of his leather jacket, all along his broad chest and across his dark undercut, his chiseled face and his blazing eyes. Somehow, Christophe has never spared him much thought before. He’s an alpha, obviously—reeks of it, even before now—but he barely ever said two words to Christophe. And Christophe has enough people pawing for his attention that he rarely has to settle for those that don’t. Now that Otabek’s shown up, blunt and obvious without any effort at flirting whatsoever, Christophe still considers him. Without a doubt, he’s hot enough. And he’s in _need_ , as much as Christophe during gritty, raw heats that render him helpless for days. Alphas never say it like that, but Christophe knows. He sees it. He’s soothed more than one shuddering, babbling rut. And he sees Otabek awkwardly glance away, the faintest dust of a blush along his sculpted cheeks, and can practically hear the subtle growling Otabek’s trying to keep down. Christophe can see the almost imperceptible quiver of his massive body.

So Christophe steps aside, gesturing into the semi-hallway of his suite, purring, “Sure.”

Otabek’s shoulders slump with obvious relief. He steps inside without another word, without a single question, like it doesn’t matter that they know no more about each other than their names. Christophe shuts the door again anyway, then turns for the living space, casually offering: “Would you like a glass of wine?”

He barely gets the words out. Rather than answering, Otabek grabs his wrist. Christophe’s spun around on the spot, thrown against the wall, and held there so hard that his vision blurs. Otabek’s instantly _on him._ One minute Christophe’s mouth is open to talk, and the next it’s full of Otabek’s tongue. It feels even longer than Christophe’s, wider at least, and shoves as far in as it can go, like Otabek wants to fuck his throat _right now_. Christophe shivers just from the intensity, then pulls himself back together and adjusts to take it. He tilts his face for a better angle, Otabek’s nose smashed against his own, and Otabek growls fiercely into Christophe’s mouth, as though daring him to leave. He wouldn’t dream of it. This is the sort of thing he yearns for, the kind of emotion he soaks in and pours into his routines, always adding to his art. He pushes his own tongue right back against Otabek’s, and they drown each other in a slew of wet, sloppy kisses that have Christophe’s temperature spiking by the minute. 

He still tries to talk. Otabek’s pheromones make him dizzy with _lust_ , but when he gathers himself enough for it, he pulls his mouth away. He mutters, “Do you want to come in—” but doesn’t even make it to the bedroom part, because Otabek chases him down. Otabek kisses his breath away and slips greedy hands beneath his shirt. Christophe gasps as Otabek’s burning fingers seer into his stomach, sliding up his abs to wrinkle his shirt and knead his pecs. Christophe clutches at Otabek’s shoulders, not so much pushing away as just holding on. Once Christophe’s nipples are both rock hard and he’s arching forward into it, Otabek diverts his grip up into Christophe’s hair, one hand fisting in the blond strands while the other ducks to his pants. His zipper’s down before he knows it.

He shoves Otabek’s chest hard enough to give him one second of breathing room, and he insists before Otabek claims his mouth again: “Condom.” The hand at Christophe’s crotch pauses, but nothing else does. It’s enough that Christophe can reach around to his own back pocket, plucking out the necessity. He used to carry a few in his wallet. Now they’re in even easier reach. His omega body will take care of the rest, but he doesn’t know Otabek at all, and he fiddles the wrapper open without looking. 

He hears more than sees Otabek’s fly coming down, and he moves forward, hands fumbling around Otabek’s as a thick, hard cock is pulled out into the air. Otabek’s pheromones seem to double, and Christophe lets out a needy whine from that alone. He tries to reach for it, but it’s shoved up against him too fast, poking into and sliding up his stomach. His shirt’s ridden up, and the catch of skin-on-skin makes him shiver with delight. When he finally gets his hands on it, he needs to push Otabek away again, because he needs to get a good look—it’s _huge_.

For one disorienting moment, Christophe just stares at it—at the mammoth, heavily-veined, burning-hot cock pulsating in his hand. His fingers barely fit around it. He knew some alphas swelled during ruts, but Otabek’s massive. It would probably be impossible to fit inside certain omegas, but the more Christophe looks at it, the more ready his body gets. He can already feel his hole clenching, a thin drizzle of slick dampening his thong. Then Otabek growls like some feral wolf on the prowl, and Christophe jumps to life again—he rolls the condom on with practiced efficiency and no small sense of awe. The second it’s on to the base, Otabek jerks Christophe’s head back by his hair, and Christophe whines into another fierce kiss. He lets go of Otabek’s amazing cock to toss his arms around Otabek’s shoulders, because he knows what’s coming, and he has a feeling he’ll need to be holding on for it.

Sure enough, Otabek bends down, his mouth still connected with Christophe’s the entire way, until he can shove his hands between Christophe’s legs. He loops his arms beneath Christophe’s knees, then jerks up, and Christophe’s feet are pulled right out from under him—he winds up pinned in place by just Otabek’s weight and power, his legs locking tight around Otabek’s waist as he detangles his arms to let them roam Christophe’s body again. They run up everything, pressing in hard to the point of nearly bruising, then run down again to hook into Christophe’s jeans, and Otabek tugs them right up his thighs, snatching his thong along with them, and leaving Christophe’s bare ass hanging in the air. Christophe can practically hear the natural juices bubbling out of him. His channel feels horribly _empty_ , and he knows just who can feel it up. He feels like an idiot for never jumping Otabek before. Otabek might be short on words, but he’s proving big on action. 

He bends and reaches under to position himself, and Christophe spreads his legs as wide as he can without letting go of Otabek’s strong body. He half wants more time, wants to be comfortably in bed, where he can roll around and find the best angle to really _see_ Otabek’s enormous cock shoving into his hole. But the rest of him wants it like this—raw and exciting, rough against the wall. He feels the spongy tip nudging at his entrance, and he lets out a languid moan that Otabek licks away. He has no delusions that Otabek will be gentle for this part—alphas in rut never are.

A quick intake of breath, and Otabek shoves in, stabbing the head inside and wracking a low shriek out of Christophe’s aching throat. He arches away from it, wrenching free of Otabek’s mouth, but Otabek keeps pressing, further and further inside a little bit at a time. Christophe’s fingers dig into Otabek’s jacket, nearly puncturing the leather, but Otabek doesn’t seem to care. He keeps going, and Christophe finally turns to bury his cries in the crook of Otabek’s throat. Otabek’s pheromones burst around him, trying to soothe him and praise him, warm and welcoming, but possessive and ravenous just the same. Christophe has no idea what _he_ smells like, but it’s probably mindless desperation—whimpering happiness and eager pleas for _more_. His channel twitches and stretches as Otabek fills it up, so deep that Christophe can’t stop shaking, until it’s finally so far in that he thinks _this_ will finally be the time that he doesn’t tighten back up again after—Otabek will have ruined him forever. But it’s worth it. Otabek gives a few shallow thrusts that make Christophe choke, just adjusting, and then he starts pulling out, only to slam back inside with the force of a jackhammer. Christophe squeezes tighter and cries.

But he _loves it_. He loves being filled, being stretched and fucked, tethered to an alpha’s body through a fit of passion. He’d ride Otabek properly if he could—push Otabek back and straddle his lap, arch and moan and writhe about on such a glorious dick—but there’s no room to do anything but just _take it_ , and Otabek seems all too happy to give it all. It only takes a few thrusts to find Christophe’s prostate, and then Christophe’s _really_ screaming, heedless of the public building and the thickness of the walls—he lets himself enjoy the brutal pounding Otabek gives his sweet spot. He’s nearly cried himself hoarse by the time Otabek nudges his head back into place and resumes kissing him, fucking him with both cock and tongue. 

Christophe tries to participate in what little ways he can. He clenches around Otabek’s dick, trying to suck at it, and he massages Otabek’s tongue with his own and plays with the back of Otabek’s cropped hair, whimpering approving noises into Otabek’s busy mouth. Otabek does nothing in response but fill him up. It makes Christophe sad that Otabek can’t really _fill him_ , not with seed, not yet, and probably not even with a knot, although Christophe would _love_ that—he loves the heady aftermath of a good fuck, safe in an alpha’s arms and still pleasantly full. He wonders idly if he can get Otabek to the bed for round two. Then Otabek fucks the thought right out of his head, and he’s just scrambling for air and consciousness, because he’d hate to pass out and miss even a second of this amazing ride.

A final stab too soon, and Otabek’s crying out. His whole body tenses, and Christophe knows what’s coming, even though the condom’s catching it. His own cock is still trapped in his bunched up jeans, untouched, but that’s for the best—if he’s allowed, he’ll just come and come without any need for his partner. He holds onto Otabek and rides this one out, semi-surprised when Otabek stops roaring like a lion at his finish.

If anything, Otabek falls eerily quiet. He goes as silently as he came, and he slumps when he’s spent, chin falling to Christophe’s shoulder. He stays in place, but he seems heavier. His shoulders slump. And then he finally straightens again, eyes less dilated and cheeks pink more from clear embarrassment than fervor. He looks disgruntled for half a minute, then quickly steels over again. He mumbles, “Thank you.”

Christophe dons a sloppy grin, returning, “Sure.”

Hands falling to Christophe’s hips, Otabek carefully pulls himself out. Christophe gasps as he goes, nowhere near ready, and the gaping emptiness is _horrible_ after. He can’t help eyeing Otabek’s limp cock as it twitches and starts to fill again. The rut’s not over, the knot unfulfilled. Christophe can’t help thinking that he could fix that. 

He’s helped back to his feet, though he totters and has to snatch for his pants as they slump down his thighs. It rubs his cock against them, and he whimpers at that. Otabek pauses, looking both wrecked and confused. Then he coughs and turns towards the door, one hand on his pants and the used condom still encasing his cock. 

He barely gets half a step before Christophe grabs his forearm and starts dragging him back towards the bedroom—this is one rut he _definitely_ wants to see through.


End file.
